Resurrection
by Twirling Ivy
Summary: Guess who's back from the dead? (One-shot)


It has been 5 months, and 6 days since Sherlock had taken the fall. John missed him every day. The weeks following his death were unbearable; much more so than anything he had ever experienced in Afghanistan. To get out of bed took an enormous amount of effort. He still lived in 221b, because where else was he going to go? Some days, he heard the ghost sound of obnoxious violin playing, other days he thought he smelled Sherlock's scent near his favourite chair. However, after the months went by, things became steadily easier. He learned to cope. He found that it became easier to get out of bed, and little by little, he regained a life that had a semblance of normality. His leg had begun to bother him, which was odd as it hadn't for a long time, so he went back to using a cane. Life was quiet, life was steady.

Frankly, he hated it. He hated the lack of excitement. He hated the lack of importance in his mundane, day to day life. Life with Sherlock had been at times frustrating, often confusing. It was always fast, dangerous and breathtaking. He would not have wanted his life any different. Life with Sherlock Holmes was an adventure. The man had his quirks, but John loved his life with Sherlock in it. With that man by his side, he had felt complete.

He still saw the colleagues that he had made in London. Just yesterday, he and Mycroft had tea together. They discussed politics and economics, but their heads were not into it. The real reason that both of them had tea from time to time was because there was a comfort in the other's presence. Both had cared about Sherlock, and it was relaxing not to have to try to heavily mask the mourning they were in. John could see that his brother's death had taken a toll on him too. There was no longer that arrogant spark in his eye, instead it was replaced with a tired weariness. John wondered if Mycroft had shed as many tears as he had over Sherlock's grave. He had shed so many, it was a wonder that he hadn't run out.

John got up and decided to get around to shopping for groceries. He picked up his cane beside the door, and off he went. He walked down the street along with everyone else, shuffling with everyone like a member of a herd of sheep. Amongst the crowd ahead of him, he swore that he saw...but it couldn't be. The more John looked though, the more the man resembled him. Well, from behind anyways. He could only see him from behind, but what he saw was a moderately tall, slim man with a black trench coat and thick, curly black hair. John shuffled faster, trying to close in to get a better look. He knew that it couldn't be him, yet he still dared to hope.

Something inside John had always told him that Sherlock could not be dead, because why would someone so brilliant just resolve to kill himself like that? Surely Sherlock would have died in a way that was much more meticulously planned. If Sherlock had planned to die, he would have shown the world how he could to it in such a brilliant way that the world would never forget.

The man turned the corner, shaking the crowd, and John followed suit. He didn't dare call out, for if it was Sherlock, and he had been alive all this time, this was certainly not the way that he wanted to be found.

John was able to catch up, then pulled a bit of a sprint (or what he could muster anyways) to get in front of him, and started t jog backwards to see who the man's face. He stopped dead in his stride.

He was wearing heavy sunglasses. Make no mistake however, it was him.

Sherlock Holmes had defeated death.

John couldn't speak. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't even produce a proper thought. All he could think was How? and Why?

How could Sherlock do this to him? Why would he do this to him?

Sherlock paused for a moment, trying to cover his tracks. "Excuse me sir, but I think you are mistaking me for someone else." Sherlock said in a scratchier voice with a French accent.

John snapped, feeling a hit of rage come over him like lightning. He let out a scream as he lunged for Sherlock, and punched him straight across the face, sending Sherlock's glasses flying. Sherlock looked at John, and for the first time ever, Sherlock appeared to be flustered, confused, and unsure. "John, I-"

He didn't get to finish as John had taken him by the front of his collar and pressed his lips against his, roughly and urgently. The bastard had been faking death for months, and John didn't want to hear any excuses.

Sherlock was tensed, obviously caught off guard. John decided to deepen the kiss, using his tongue to encourage Sherlock to open his mouth. He flicked Sherlocks teeth with his tongue. This was not how John had thought that he would greet Sherlock Holmes if he found him to not be dead, but John had come to a revelation during Sherlock's absence. John was in love with him. He was in love with a man that went giddy for murder. He was in love with a man that knew absolutely nothing about sex. He was in love with a man that he wasn't sure he knew.

On some level, John was aware that these feelings had stirred the moment they met. John was fascinated by him. He gave John's life a purpose. He placed John into a world where he belonged. He was the spark that John craved with every inch of his body. He had tried to fight it, he tried so hard, but he knew that it was meant to be. They were meant for each other, and maybe (judging by the way Sherlock's mouth started to soften and how his tongue started to flick in and out of John's mouth) Sherlock felt something too.

Sherlock placed on of his hands on John's back, the other knotted in his har. John opened his eyes to see Sherlock's fluttering as they kissed. John finally decided to pull away. "You can't just disappear like that and think that it would be okay."

"I know," said Sherlock, "I was trying to protect you; all of you."

"There are people here, Lestrade, Molly, Mycroft, and I, that care whether you live or die.

"Well, Molly knew."

John' eyes were most likely popping out of his head. "She knew? She knew and didn't say something?"

"I made her promise."

John sank his head into Sherlock's jacket, trying to hide the rising tears. "Five months. I was made to visit your grave for five months, thinking you were dead."

"I know. I'm sorry. It was necessary."

John looked Sherlock in the eye, eyes burning from fighting tears. "You left me here alone."

"I'm here now. I was never going to leave you forever. I just needed to figure out how to "come out of the coffin" if you will."

John smiled. "God, I love you. Do you know that?"

Sherlock looked down at him, a look of deep thought on his face. They stood there for about a minute before words came out Sherlock's mouth. "John...I feel the exact same way."

**Sherlock leaned down and kissed him gently, and John wrapped his arms around his neck. One thing was for sure; it is hard to stay mad at the ones you love.**


End file.
